eyes and vehemently wiped away her tears
with the tattered lace handkerchief. In all these words and actions,
however, she was graceful and touching, because she was natural. She was
not posing or conscious, she was hiding nothing. Yet Ashe felt certain
she could act a part magnificently; only it would not be for the lie's
sake, but for the sake of some romantic impulse or imagination.

"Why should you torment yourself so?" he asked her, kindly. Her hand had
dropped and lay beside her on the bench. To his own amazement he found
himself clasping it. "Isn't it better to forget old griefs? You can't
help what happened years ago--you can't undo it. You've got to live your
own life--<i>happily</i>! And I just wish you'd set about it."

He smiled at her, and there were few faces more attractive than his when
he let his natural softness have its way, without irony. She let her
eyes be drawn to his, and as they met he saw a flush rise in her clear
skin and spread to the pale gold of her hair. The man in him was
marvellously pleased by that flush--fascinated, indeed. But she gave him
small time to observe it; she drew herself impatiently away.

"Of course, you don't understand a word about it," she said, "or you
couldn't talk like that. But I'll tell you." Her eyes, half miserable,
half audacious, returned to him. "My sister--came here--because I sent
for her. I made mademoiselle go with a letter. Of course, I knew there
was a mystery--I knew the Grosvilles did not want us to meet--I knew
that she and maman hated each other. But maman will tell me nothing--and
I have a <i>right</i> to know."

"No, you have no right to know," said Ashe, gravely.

She looked at him wildly.

"I have--I have!" she repeated, passionately. "Well, I told my sister to
meet me here--I had forgotten, you see, all about you! My mind was so
full of Alice. And when she came I felt as if it was a dream--a
horrible, tragic dream. You know--she is <i>so</i> like me--which means, I
suppose, that we are both like papa. Only her face--it's not handsome,
oh no--but it's stern--and--yes, noble! I was proud of her. I would like
to have gone on my knee and kissed her dress. But she would not take my
hand--she would hardly speak to me. She said she had come, because it
was best, now that I was in England, that we should meet once, and
understand that we <i>couldn't</i> meet--that we could never, never be
friends. She said that she hated my mother--that for years